His existence was solely created for one purpose.

Destruction.

As long as he could remember, a blade had always been pressed reassuringly into his palm. His fingers knew every small groove of any hilt. He had far surpassed older demons in skill, and he served as the Master's successor.

But in nights like these, he didn't want to worry about where to slash so it'd be a critical hit. Sometimes, he just needed a night to cope.

His muscles loosened as his legs spread apart, and he arched his body to lay parallel with the floor. His fingers impatiently drummed on the stone floor as he tried to pull himself more, surpass his body's limits. Feeling contented after several rough minutes, he pulled himself back up into a sitting position before standing tall.

Even now, with his soles pressed into the ground and heels touching, his legs never met. His shoulder blades were rather prominent though his tight, white shirt, and his ribs surely poked out too far to be healthy.

Most of the demons whispered in the hallways, shooting him glances out of the corners of their eyes, calling him sick.

He called himself (almost) perfect.

All of this had started out as a little game, something that he could control, not the Master. It felt nice having power and being able to brandish it as he pleased, but now he couldn't stop. There was something so terrifyingly stupendous in torturing your body into submission, something absolutely beautiful.

He could compromise sheer strength with magic. Who needed to have a powerful body if you had an incredible knack for magic? He'd rather be swift with a blade and fierce with a supernatural force than indulge in unnecessary foods.

His eyes fluttered closed, and he let out a deep breath. His hands held on to the bar in the training room as he swept one leg upwards. He let go of the bar with one hand and grabbed his foot, pulling his leg farther in an attempt to make his legs into a straight, vertical line. After a few seconds of holding this position, he released his leg, slowly bringing it back down to the ground. He repeated the process with his other leg, but black dots swarmed his vision this time. Letting out a frustrated grunt, he quickly brought his leg back down and shut his eyes tight.

"There you are, my songbird," a gravelly voice hummed. Ghirahim immediately dropped to a knee, cursing under his breath as his leg hit the ground a little too hard.

"Master..." He trailed off, not knowing where to go with this conversation. This intrusion was new to him.

"Stop with that ridiculous formality and get up," Demise huffed. Ghirahim scrambled to his feet and bit the inside of his lip as black dots attacked his vision once more. "Feet together."

The lower demon felt heat flare up in his cheeks, and he tried to cross his arms over his chest, trying to cover something from that scrutinizing gaze, but the Master gruffly pulled his arms away. There would surely be bruises blossoming on his arms tonight. Demise didn't understand how delicate he was.

"Too thin," the observation echoed hauntingly through the room, making Ghirahim's pulse quicken. "You're no good to me if you pass out in the middle of battle from malnutrition."

Ghirahim opened his mouth to reply, but Demise put a hand in the air, signaling for him to stay silent. "How much have you been eating?"

"Two thousand calories a day," came the automated reply. Demise narrowed his eyes, not really believing his servant.

"I'm raising your requirement to three thousand calories then. A hard working warrior needs more than the average peasant. I'll be sure to notify staff of this new duty."

Ghirahim's breathing quickened and his eyes widened. He could practically feel the fat already festering underneath his skin. The Master gently took his hand in his own, flipping it to where the inner wrist was visible. His arm looked pathetically frail in the strong grip of Demise's.

"Don't disappoint me Ghirahim," he threatened, before leaving.

The other breathed a sigh of relief as the unwanted company left. As if nothing had happened, he went back to practicing until his lifts, pirouettes, and turns were perfectly landed every time.

He practiced a little longer every night, and ate less and less, never minding what the Master said.

He wanted everything to be perfect before the big day came.

He needed everything to be perfect, no matter the cost.

A/N: Prologues and epilogues are shorter than when I write actual chapters. Actual chapters will range from 1000-2000 words.

Yes, this fanfic does have GhiraLink, but it is not solely centered on GhiraLink.

{I couldn't get the picture of Ghirahim as a ballerina out of my head, do this is what you get}

This fanfic deals with some very serious issues, so viewer discretion is advised. This story will contain (but isn't limited to) themes of eating disorders, selfharm, use of drugs and other intoxicants, and sexual content.

And this may have been a little confusing, but it'll be explained in the first chapter.